Witcher's Dragon and Wolf
by Raxychaz
Summary: Amnesia is a troublesome thing. When a God seemingly loses his memories, only having images with no information, abilities with no source. What is he to do? The last remnant led him to Kaer Morhen. Leading him down The Path, of a Witcher. M for violence, gore, sex etc.


**So I just finished Witcher 2, this is what happens when I play games.**

**Note, any mention of description if from the writers POV not the character. Make sure to keep that in mind.**

**Flashback: Kaer Morhen**

'_Here. This is where I felt the last sliver of my power, that last signal I would ever get for safety. Nothing is left, not even a shred…_' a figure clad in a thick black traveling coat, his form was small, like that of a teenager. A trail of glowing blue mist left the corners out from under the coats hood, the lower portion of his face, covered by a scarf.

Strapped to his back were a pair of bastard swords, almost too big for him to carry, let alone use, they were strange looking blades, they had several protrusions from the sides, that jutted out in random directions, runes down the centre of each actual blade itself, and while one was the colour of midnight, with a dark red tint whenever the sun hit it, the other was a deadly dark blue, that oozed evil, the hilts consisted of an ornamental dragon skulls, the horns curled around the cross guard, the grip was metal, with a smooth polished surface, the pommels held a small diamond shaped gem, a dark purple colour for one and glacial blue for the other.

This was his blade, Shadowmourne, nowadays the identical twin of its sister Frostmourne-_the other blade_-both were the only things he could remember. Their names were whispered to him by the blades, while _a lot_ of souls resided in both of them, though, the blades refused to release them, as 'The Master had ordered their sentence.' So apparently he wielded these blades liberally in his past.

'_All that's left…are these damned eyes. I once loved the title, Death Knight. Now I loathe it. For all my remaining power, is nothing but that. No seals…no Chakra, no Mastery of Reality, nothing. My title as God, torn from me…and all I can remember is the images, not the events themselves, I feel the phantom flowing of power, but can't touch it. I am cursed, to have the knowledge of my abilities, but not how to use them._' It is clear, to any whose eyes glance upon this page, whom this person is.

Menma, currently without name or title or residence.

'_Stuck…in my half form. Integrating with any populace was neigh impossible. Even the elves were weary at first anyway…_' a sliver of skin was shown from the sagging of his hood, a cheek. Upon this cheek was ash grey skin, his half form, was that of his Half-Dragon state, he would use only in cases of extreme condition or stress upon his otherwise impervious body.

In this form he would gain the features of a creature from Thedas, a Qunari would be the most apt description, though his face was much more human than theirs, his body remained the same. The only difference being that at his tailbone protruded a long scaled tail, ending in a trident that was more sharply honed than any blade a human, elf or dwarf could ever hope to craft.

He'd come to a place known as Kaer Morhen, this world was strange, the names were even worse. So many silent letters or misplaced 'I's and 'Y's it was a bitch to understand most of the time, or even pronounce correctly.

People claimed this place hard to locate let along get to, Menma found no such difficulties. These _Witcher's_ were of interest to him, from what he could pry out of some poor sod's brain-_soul devouring being the only skill he had left of his old self_-the Witcher's were mutants, whom had been trained rigorously, unfortunately the moron was low-born trash, so nothing he had in his mind would be credible evidence.

Low-born, yes. The plebs, the common folk, the _trash_. He hated humans, and the ones around here were so ass-backwards in their thought patterns it made him sick, to even be near these filthy cretins was almost too much.

Dwarves and elves were much more tolerable, though he'd only encountered a few so far; one helped him for a few months, Iorveth, leader of the Scoia'tael in the Pontar Valley. The Scoia'tael being renegades of both mentioned races whom fought against the _humans_ and their belief system a group Menma had no qualms of associating with.

"Who goes there?" snapped a calm, chilled voice. Menma realised just how long he'd been internally monologue'ing, finding himself upon a drawbridge, lowered no doubt for the man whom stood before him.

He was an old man, snow white hair that was pushed back, a small beard adorning his chin and top lip, Menma glanced the man up and down, he was strong looking, robust even. His armour looked well enough, all brown leather; with a belt strung with pouches filled with gods only know what, he had no weapons on his person. But it was his eyes that intrigued the small half-dragon, catlike, burning with an ember quality yet looking like any felines.

A Witcher.

"I do…clearly." Replied Menma, his voice coming out slightly course from disuse, since leaving the Pontar Valley he had not spoken to any, nor had he wanted to.

"Smart. I mean how is it that a child managed to get to Kaer Morhen all on his lonesome?" asked the old man, a gruff voice. Menma twitched at that comment he was only a little shorter than this man, and would no doubt grow to larger heights when he was older.

"I was told to come here." Answered Menma, the scarf at the bottom of his hood thankfully covering his face, as he peeked one silver coloured eye into the man's vision, his form tensed and Menma could hear cursing in his mind. "Calm yourself, Witcher. I'm not some monster for you to slay." Said Menma, his eye narrowing visibly.

"Oh? Then please tell me as to why I smell nothing but magic off you, boy. Take off the coat." Ordered the old man, Menma thought for a moment, this man was unarmed; he could easily slay him with his tail alone, so even if he moved to make hostile intent, he was safe.

"Very well." Muttered the Half-Dragon. Unbuttoning the front of the coat Menma took it off, revealing his form. Atop his head, at the back of his skull were four horns that curled up and back, they had a telescopic pattern and ended in points, his hair was shaggy and ended in spikes while the colour was predominantly white, the ends and his bangs were flaming red. The boy's face was definitively human, a sharp noble like look to it.

His skin was all grey, the colour of ash. Much to the old man's surprise a tail swung lazily back and forth, though Vesemir could easily see how ready it was to strike him down.

He was clothed in a simply pair of dark grey pants, and black leather boots. His body was built with muscle that could make any man look in shame, it was not grotesque, but not something a swimmer, or runner could ever hope to accomplish, reiterating just how much he indeed, looked like a Qunari.

"And who or what for that matter, exactly are you, and why have you come here?" asked the old man, Vesemir.

"I am Menma, currently stuck in my Half-Dragon state. I came here, because the last of my power sent a small light, this is where the light faded. So here I am, I'm assuming since this world seems to be teeming with all manner of deadly cretins, human or monstrosity, becoming a Witcher would be in my best interest." Vesemir's eyes were wide and his jaw hung a slight loose, he'd always wanted a student that could handle the very full extent of his training.

Geralt was one whom came close, reaching 9/10 of his training. But then again the White Wolf of Rivia was currently in the Witcher School, unconscious and recovering while Triss Merigold watched over him.

Vesemir looked at Menma, the old man's catlike eyes searching through he blue mist the followed the 15 year olds. "I believe you and I have much to discuss, before we get to the subject of whether or not, you can become a Witcher." Said Vesemir, Menma tilted his head in agreement. The old man gestured for him to follow.

**Later…**

"So…is that all you can remember?" asked Vesemir, getting a nod from the young whelp, who was currently taking a sip from a cup that contained rather powerful ale. Not that Vesemir liked it; the lad had strength that could make even _him_ look like a babe.

"Like I said, all I can recall is that I was an extremely powerful life form, I remember the various abilities but not how to use them. No amount of muscle memory can help you summon I meteorite from the skies without knowing how to flow your energies. Chakra, Mana, Youki, Holy Light, Pure Death…none of it even mildly has come to me. Only the names." Said the boy, taking another hearty mouthful from the cup before slamming it down an annoyed expression marring his face, his tail dug into the stone floor angrily.

"I can recall faces, with no names, places not of this world. Evidently It would seem, I am not of this one…The chill of reality…those words keep ringing in my head." Said the 15 year old, his annoyance lifting for a moment, leaving a sombre look.

"A shame…I would very much like to hear this story." Said Vesemir, for the first time in over an hour of being in one another's presence, Menma smiled, well…smirked but that still counted right? No child, no matter what species should look so serious, Witcher or no, he was still an old man, and perhaps when he was younger, emotions seemed to escape him. Over the years he's grown some, a soft heart for kids it would seem.

"As would I, Vesemir. As would I." said the Dragon, crossing his arms over the table and laying his chin upon them, he looked at the old man, and raised an eyebrow. "So…can I become a Witcher? Or not?" asked the whelp.

Vesemir hummed, like he was actually thinking, he had already decided the child would become a Witcher, with a Dragon the monsters of the world would shudder and feel nothing but terror, when this lad set out on the path. "Very well, but I must warn you. This will not be easy, there will be no breaks, no crying, and certainly no more alcohol." Said Vesemir snatching the boy's cup, drawing a growl from the dragon, "The Mutations will no doubt mess with your body, I suppose that will be something interesting to see though." Menma rolled his silver eyes and shrugged, his body was already set in stone as to its form, unless he could remember what the fuck the spell or incantation was to shift, he'd be fine.

**Two Days later.**

Menma was sparring one of the recruits, Shadowmourne in his hands, as he parried a strike and sidestepped letting the recruit stumble forward, and kicked the man in the ass, making him tumble, Shadowmourne was staked into the ground next to his head, the recruit flinched heavily while Menma growled at him.

"I expected more from a grown man." Said the draconic teen, grabbing his blade and holding it to his shoulder, leather straps took the blade and held it, his holster was strange, but it might have been something he did in his past.

"No need to be a spiteful winner, Menma." Scolded Vesemir, Menma rolled his eye, his tail wrapped around his opponents waist, he stood the man up and walked away.

Menma was currently clad in leather armour, his holster having the addition of a few wider leather pieces to avoid the rubbing of the thinner straps, a pair of loose grey pants that fell into black leather boots that ended in points, a few thin plates of metal acting as shin guards. His wrists covered by thick black leather gloves, with the same thin plates, though his knuckles had small spikes to increase the damage his punches could do.

"So…who's that?" asked a voice from the side, coarse and soft at the same time. Menma's ear twitched as he turned a man donned in a loose fitting white shirt, black trousers and boots, with brown leather gloves, stood next to a woman. This was Geralt, of Rivia.

The woman was Triss Merigold, a Sorceress she had tanned skin, long wavey auburn hair and striking blue eyes she was wearing a brown leather jacket with a white furred collar, it was open at her chest, exposing cleavage. The sleeves were cut off and it was clearly modified to her form, a white shirt with black stripes underneath, while a pair of forearm length gloves covered her hands. She had a brown skirt, though Menma had to strain to see it, and knee-high brown leather boots.

'_So much brown…so boring._' Thought Menma before he crossed his arms and looked at the man, their eyes met, feline amber, and deadly silver. "Menma." Answered the Dragon.

"Ahh Geralt, there you are." Greeted Vesemir, a smile on his face "This lad came to us three days ago, couldn't remember much of his past, but asked to be a Witcher. And look at him, who could turn down that face?" said the white haired old man with a chuckle, Menma shot a scathing look but said nothing.

"Geralt, of Rivia." Introduced the White Wolf.

Menma looked at the mans offered hand, then back at him, '_too many humans'_ he thought, and took the man's hand, his clawed hand wrapping around the White Wolf's, '_But they aren't retarded commoners. So I can deal with them._' He finished his thought and answered "Menma."

"No place of birth?" asked Geralt, Menma shook his head.

"Can't remember. I can see a blurry image, but that's it." Replied the Dragon, Geralt could sympathize, though not visibly…nor emotionally, but he could relate. After all, his memories were as good as gone for now as well.

"I'm sorry I don't think we've met either, Triss Merigold." Said the blue eyed sorceress, Menma nodded, taking her hand.

"Pleasure."

"He's of few words this one. But good with a sword like no other I've seen." Said the Old man, Menma grunted and went to go lean on the wall, Geralt trying to get back into the sway of handling a blade.

A rumbling caught his ears as he heard a group of feet run across the drawbridge, Leo-another Witcher- raced in, saying something about bandits.

"Come on out Mutants! So we can gut ya!" shouted a rather angry voice, Menma's eyes lazily drifted to the gate, it was being charged and a group of what he could guess to be bandits, rolled in, they were all clothed in shabby leather armour and cloth bandana's covered the bottom half of their faces.

"Oi, lookie there, some kinda monster. Wonder how much its head 'ould sell for." Said one of them.

"Can we kill them now?" asked the 15 year old, Vesemir already had a thick bladed rapier in his hands, Menma grabbed Shadow' and Frostmourne, the blades glistening at his touch, he ran, turning into a blur of grey, black and red, and leapt time seemed to slow down, his tail lashing out and whipping around, causing him to spin and landed, burying his blades into the chest of two bandits, the mist around his eyes gathered, coating his optical organs runic blue and began a deep thrumming glow.

With each step he took, an echo of power left them, he may not have the necessary muscle memory to use his powers, but his combat style and apparent blood thirst were very present. Menma rolled back, his blades following while crimson life-liquid trailed them, with another flip he became parallel to the ground, his tail staking into it, as he was held aloft.

"Blasted freaks, kill it!" roared one of the bandits, Menma grinned, his razor sharp teeth being put in display.

"_Howling Blast!_" Roared the Dragon, a pair of runes on his neck glowing icy white, as a torrent of freezing winds shot from his lips, forming into a raging torrent that literally tore the swarm of bandits to bits, the mage forming a shield of The Power, to save himself from the blade, though several light cuts littered his body and robes.

"Impressive." Said Vesemir, ducking under a strike and impaling his target.

**Flashback End: Years Later, Forests outside Flotsam. **

It had been a while, since he'd been near the Pontar Valley. His eyes no longer holding the silver hue, instead now having the feline tell-tale signs of a Witcher, his memories had not come back yet. Though he did manage to match a few names to faces.

Maiev, the elven woman his love.

Ivory, a werewolf, another whom had his heart.

And finally Tozi, some strange green snake creature. Though he felt warmth in his heart at the sight of it, he knew not what it was.

Those were the only names, out of millions of nameless faces that he could recall, unfortunately. His attire had changed since his time in Kaer Morhen, now sporting a leather jacket, plate armour up and down the right arm, a shoulder guard with a small kite-shield upon it, though it was only there for aesthetic value. It had happened to have saved his life a few times.

His hands were covered by the same leather gloves, as were his feet covered by the same boots, his legs protected by thin, yet highly durable and strong strips of metal that ran down his leather trousers, and a belt stuffed with pouches holding various potions, herbs, and most importantly his money.

Though he had to hand it to the Witcher's they may not have sealing magics, but their odd pouches could hold anything as long as they fit into the opening.

He had a large baggy cloak over his left shoulder; it was folded up and held by a leather belt, ready to be put over him at a minutes notice. He, unfortunately, overshot where he wanted to go and ended up, upriver from Flotsam, though fortune seemed to favour him as he spotted a Blue Stripes ship.

"Well, well. Geralt of Rivia, how interesting it is to see you once more." He said with a grin, the vision of a Witcher was a powerful thing, and he could easily spot a target several kilometres away. Geralt was looking good, aging well it seemed.

Though the uniform he wore…made him nervous. "Why is he wearing a Blue Stripes, get up..?" murmured Menma, narrowed eyes and curious gaze.

A flutes tune entered his ears, and he sunk to the ground, crawling like a lizard would, over rocks and under roots, until he found another, whom he was familiar with Iorveth, the bandana clad leader of the Scoia'tael.

Menma watched as they talked, Triss, whom had changed her hair unfortunately, was preparing some spell, and some man. Menma knew not whom this man was, but he wore the medallion of the Blue Stripes so he could be their leader.

Just as Triss was to fire off her spell at someone Menma had spent several months with, forming a bond of kinship, he leapt.

Geralt gave the softest whisper he could "Now." To Triss, in hopes that they could take Iorveth alive, Roche seemed to be quite adamant about killing him but he needed the elf to tell him all he could about the kingslayer.

That was the plan, however the reality was that a giant figure shot from the forests, and a familiar pair of blades absorbed the spell, said figure now hung upsidedown from the giant root Iorveth was standing atop of.

"Good to see you again, Geralt, Triss. Iorveth always a pleasure. Though I don't know who the fuck you are." Cursed the giant, the tail dislodged and the sun shined down upon him, this giant was the same person whom Geralt had spent quite the time with.

"Menma, you got taller." Said Geralt, Menma's brow twitched, of course he'd gotten taller, it had been over four years since they'd last seen one another, Roche was thrown this being was no doubt 6' 5" maybe 6' 8" in size, easily dwarfing himself and all his company.

"Ahh, Menma. Always good to see you, Brother." Said Iorveth, an amused look on his face.

"Brother?" parroted Triss, Roche and Geralt.

**End.**

**Read, Review, etc.**

**Hope you guys like. This might be a One-shot, or evolve into something more. Who knows.**

**Well I do.**

**But you don't and that's all that matters.**

_**Raxychaz!**_


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